


Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow!

by hobbitsdoitbetter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dorks in Love, F/M, Fluff, Snowed in!, all of the fluff, all of the smut, also smut, only one bed!, pass the smelling salts, so.many.tropes, unrequited love is not unrequited!, what will they do?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:22:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21773641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitsdoitbetter/pseuds/hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: Sherlock and Molly are on a case (sort of). Stuck in the middle of nowhere (totally). And there’s only one bed in their small, romantic, Scottish shelter.What could happen here, hmm?Troperific bit of fun for the festive season.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 48
Kudos: 225





	1. The Heat and The Heart In The Whisky

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Part one of Two.

* * *

**THE HEAT AND THE HEART IN THE WHISKY**

* * *

_The Isle of Skye_

_Somewhere to the left of The Arse of Nowhere_

_Now_

By the time they see the bothy in the distance, Molly has accepted that Sherlock Holmes will be the death of her.

Of course, she had often thought in the past that the consulting detective would be the death of her, what with the bomb threats and the criminal genius vendettas, and the criminal genius-causing-vendettas (who also just happen to be his sister) making bomb threats, but this time is different.

This time, it's serious.

Because this time he'd dragged her to the middle of bloody nowhere, Scotland, in the middle of bloody winter, (November) on what was supposed to be a mere four of a case and which hadn't even been a two. (Turned out, the Butler did actually do it). This time he'd finagled her into using her holidays from Bart's to get dragged through the Lothians and all across both Glasgow and Edinburgh, being shot at at every turn.

And _now_ , _**now**_ , when they'd finally managed to bag their quarry and hand him over to the local police, now she nevertheless finds herself being dragged through the Isle of Skye in Baltic conditions, trying to find some mythical safe house she's not entirely certain exists, cursing Sherlock Holmes and detectives more generally. Wondering why on Earth she allowed this to happen to her. She's shivering. Soaking. Starving. Miserable and hopeless. Her teeth are chattering so loudly you could dance a rumba to them and she's trudging through snow up to her knees while Sherlock-

Well, Sherlock is being bloody _Sherlock_.

That is, he's unshaken. Determined. Dashing of profile and heroic of brow. He's forging ahead, his jacket collar up around his cheekbones and his hat pulled down low on his head; every so often a gust of wind swooshes about the Belstaff and makes it flare around him, reminding her of nothing so much as a sorcerer in a cape and every. Single. Time she feels a flare of annoyance. No, rage.

Because _he's_ not miserable, oh no.

 _His_ teeth do not appear to be auditioning to take part in this year's _Strictly Come Dancing_.

No, with his rather longer legs he's making fine work of the snow, pulling well ahead of her, and merely throwing her the occasional cocked eyebrow over his shoulder. The occasional smug admonition to hurry up- "Come along and stop dawdling, Molly," he tells her, "you need to make those short little legs work harder-"

It's infuriating, Molly thinks. Infuriating. _She should work her little legs by kicking the crap out of him._ He doesn't even look cold: he looks windswept. Handsome. Un-bloody-believably romantic.

_And possibly, possibly, not long for this earth if Molly gets her hands on him._

It is only with great difficulty that Molly reminds herself that murder is always considered a crime- And that, despite her suspicions, Mycroft probably wouldn't help her to hide his baby brother's corpse.

_Drat._

Perhaps this murderous turn of mind shows in Molly's face, for once they get to the bothy's garden gate he pauses. Holds it open for her and, once she trundles awkwardly through, slows to walk beside her for the final stage of their journey.

When they reach the front door he fishes in his pocket and produces both a penlight and a bunch of keys, two of which he uses to open the front door. Once inside- he gestures for her to go first- he locks the doors. Tries the lights.

"Blast," he mutters when nothing happens. A smug look at Molly. "Good thing I came prepared then, isn't it?"

And, using the penlight he leads her towards the kitchen. Tries that door and, when it doesn't give, uses another of the keys to open it.

Inside Molly sees a single room, heavy curtains closed fast against the cold outside. There's a grammophon. An ancient-looking fridge and sink. An old-fashioned stoves set into the wall, a small pile of wood beside it, and atop it sits a basket of what looks like food. (God, she hopes it's food). A curtain has been hung up across the length of the room and when she pulls that back it reveals a large double bed, piled high with pillows and blankets.

A quickly scribbled note sits atop these linens, which Sherlock tries to snatch up to read.

Molly beats him to it.

"Apologies, Will," she reads aloud, "but this was the best I could do at such short notice. The crofter normally in residence is away, awaiting the birth of a lamb. You therefore have the place for the next three days, but please, please, don't set anything on fire-"

"It was just one time," Sherlock sniffs, but Molly rushes on rather than inquire.

_Experience tells her she probably doesn't want to know._

"Your lady and you should be fine," the note continues. _If there's a flutter in her chest at being referred to as Sherlock's lady, she sternly tamps it down._ "There's wood for the stove and food in the kitchen. Stay away from the windows and you will avoid detection. Should you become snowed in, Auld Willie Slocombe will checks on the property every Tuesday: he will find your frozen corpses and see that you get a Christian burial which I will not pay for (but hopefully it won't come to that).

And as ever, this time you owe me, young man,

Yours,

Lettie McKenzie."

Molly looks at Sherlock. "Who's Lettie McKenzie?" She asks with mock innocence.

_Lettie, of course, being a woman's name._

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at her: Apparently even he can guess what she's getting at. His glower indicates he's not impressed with the teasing, but Molly is too bloody cold and pissed off to care. "Leticia McKenzie is an old friend of my mother's, if you must know," he says archly. "Owns half of Scotland, married herself an Earl. When the case looked like it was heading Northwards I got in touch." He gestures to the bothy's interior, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Though I must admit, I had rather assumed she would secure better accommodation that this…"

Molly shrugs. "It's warm and dry," she says. "Beggars can't be choosers, and all that."

Her eyes are drawn to the snow storm outside and she doesn't bother to suppress her shiver.

Sherlock shoots her an unreadable look.

For a moment he seems about to say something, but at the last second changes his mind. Molly can't help but suspect that that was wise, considering how much of a pain in the arse he's being.

"Yes, well," he hedges. "Why don't you start unpacking the food and I'll see if I can get the stove working?"

His cheeks have turned a rather surprising… pink colour and he appears to be fascinated by the carpet at Molly's right foot. Molly's mind boggles: Sometimes the workings of that Big Damn Brain of his really do defy belief. But at the mention of food her stomach rumbles loudly and that settles it. She walks over to the stove and starts sorting though the basket of food. It's mainly cheeses and bread, dried fish and fruit.

There is, however, an absolutely massive bottle of honey-gold scotch at the bottom of it.

Without stopping to think- and, indeed, feeling far too cold to believe it necessary- Molly opens the bottle. Takes a nip.

She feels the liquid burn its way down her throat and a little of the cold in her bones retreats from her.

It feels so good that she takes another sip.

As she does she watches Sherlock kneel down. Expertly clear the stove's main chamber and stuff it with wood and paper.

Of course it lights the first time he tries it. Of course it does.

By the time she's taken her third nip, Sherlock's coaxing the fire into life and asking her to leave him some of that whisky-

What she doesn't notice, of course, if where he's looking while he's saying that.

Because his eyes are fastened- as is his Big Damn Brain- on the fact that the bothy only has one bed…


	2. Sources of Heat

_Disclaimer:_ this fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine.

* * *

**SOURCES OF HEAT**

* * *

_The Isle of Skye_

_Sherlock Holmes' Personal Hell_

_(Or An Excellent Approximation Thereof)_

_**Now** _

_For God's sake, man,_ Sherlock thinks desperately, _**pull yourself together.**_

_Yes, you are trapped in a confined space with Molly._

_Yes, there's only one damn bed and it would behoove you both to share it if you want to avoid freezing to death._

_And yes, both of you are going to have to get out of these damp clothes very soon or catch your death which will lead to her noticing your- your- which will lead to her wanting to slap you again-_

(A visual of said circumstance flashes behind his eyes and though Sherlock- to his dismay- doesn't find it unpleasant at all, he nevertheless forces it away.

While he may not often try, in this case he means to behave like a gentleman.)

Rather, he turns his mind to th business at hand: survival.

He did not haul himself through hell and high Skye in order to succumb to be cold now.

And, as if to remind him of just how frozen and wet and miserable he is responsible for Molly being, the redoubtable Miss Hooper takes another swig from Lettie's bottle of whisky.

The damn thing is nearly bigger than she is.

"Leave me some of that, would you?" Sherlock says irritably.

Molly shoots him a look, eyebrow cocked and then slowly, deliberately sticks her tongue out at him.

Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest. "Should I take that as a no?"

In answer Molly blows a raspberry at him. Sherlock can't help the smile which tugs at his lip- _She really is rather adorable, sometimes…_

"Definitely a no, then," he says, rather than pursue _that_ line of thought. "Perhaps I should stop working on the stove until you're ready to be cooperative, hmm?"

"Then you'll freeze too," she points out sensibly. She gives an impish grin, holds the whisky bottle out of grabbing range. "Unless, of course, you're just planning to cuddle for body heat until morning…" And she waggles her eyebrows.

Clearly the whisky is getting to her, Sherlock thinks, especially since it's on an empty stomach.

Though he knows she's only playing a challenge is a challenge, however, and he rises to it. (It's either that baldly tell her that yes, sharing a bed is something they will have to do and he's not ready to handle that right now). So he darts forward, fast and inescapable, and grabs the whisky bottle out of Molly's grasp. She makes a try to take it back but her stiffness, as well as the whisky, means that she over-estimates and merely smashes into Sherlock, knocking both he and herself to the floor.

She lands on top of him, breathless and little and wide-eyed and Mollyish.

Sherlock is suddenly, delightfully aware of everywhere their bodies are touching, and everywhere that they're not.

Despite his best intentions, the detective catches his breath. His heartbeat is hammering.

 _God, she's so bloody_ _**pretty** _ _like this…_

For a moment she stares down at him, pink faced and panting slightly. A whisp of stray hair has come loose from her ponytail and fallen over her forehead, but she and Sherlock are so close that it's tickling _his_ skin. Her whisky-sweet breath is warming _his_ face. _One movement,_ he thinks to himself, _just stretch your neck up and you could kiss her… You could touch her the way you want to…_

"Sherlock?" Molly asks. Her voice sounds tiny.

"Yes?"

For a moment he thinks she'll say something and then her eyes shutter. She stiffens.

"We should probably get out of these wet clothes," she says, rolling off him and getting to her feet. "Do you think there might be something I can change into here?"

And she makes a show of looking through the food basket. Righting the whisky bottle. Filling the massive tin teakettle with water and setting it on the stove to heat.

It seems that she wants to look anywhere but him.

Sherlock blinks, discombobulated, but then sense returns. Of course Molly would be cold. Of course she would. _He really should have thought of that before now._ And if she's a little drunk then he's definitely not trying anything untoward, no matter how much he might want to-

 _Clearly he is to be tonight's designated driver,_ he thinks. _Drat._

_Drat, drat and double drat._

As if from far away, he hears the ghost of John's laughter in his head and he tells his best friend to piss right off.

But he too stands. Walks into the bedroom and starts hunting about the bed clothes. _Molly,_ he reminds himself. _Molly needs warming up, and not in the way at least some parts of your anatomy might like._ The blankets are dry and warm but scratchy- he doesn't think any one them will be comfortable enough to wrap Molly in. As he hunts deeper into the bed, however, he finds two massive, man sized sets of thermal underwear hidden under the covers. One is a onesie, the other a leggings and long sleeved shirt set. Both come with massive, soft woolly socks which have been tucked into their pockets and considering the night that's in it, they seem to Sherlock to be manna from Heaven.

 _Finally,_ he thinks. _Finally, something_ _ **helpful.**_

For they're soft and warm and dry. They'll keep both he and Molly comfortable.

And they're both so monumentally ugly that he can't imagine even the sight of Molly wearing one of them would arouse his ardour- which will make sharing a bed with her a lot more doable.

 _Yes!_ He thinks. _Finally, some good news! No stiffy for me tonight, hurrah!_

This realisation is enough to make him grin as he brings the thermals into the kitchen and sets them before the stove to heat.

It keeps him grinning as he finds a loaf of bread and starts hacking slices off it, using an ancient-looking meat skewer to toast the bread before the stove.

It even keeps him grinning as he takes a jar of honey-also from Lettie's basket- and starts smearing it all over the toast in broad, runny strokes-

His elation lasts about as long as if takes Molly to pick up the onesie and disappear into the bedroom to change into it. When she comes out, she's pulled her hair loose and she's wearing what must surely be the most criminally alluring thermal underwear ever created by God or man.

Sherlock can feel his jaw hanging open.

Her cheeks are pink as she walks back into the kitchen, her eyes on the floor, and requests that Sherlock give her a hand with the socks- "I'm a bit stiff," she says. "Can you help me put them on?"

Sherlock nods, wordless, and gestures to the nearest chair. He drops to his knees. Takes one freezing cold little foot in his hand. Without really thinking about it he wraps both his palms around it, chafing the skin lightly, trying to restore circulation-

"Sherlock," Molly says softly. "Sherlock, that's-"

He looks up at her. Their eyes meet.

This time he can't help but think that both their hearts are racing.

"That's good," she says softly. The pink on her cheeks deepens. "But you don't have to- You must be cold too-"

"Not right now, I'm not." The words are whispered, hoarse, and if his voice sounds like a prayer then so be it: he hasn't the strength to fight it, not when she's looking like this. Not when he's touching her like this.

Not when she's his perfect, lovely little Molly.

Time seems to slow, to rise and widen. It wraps him in an embrace as he and Molly lean towards one another.

Their lips touch, fire to paper, to matches, to oil, and suddenly all he can think about is more, more, more…


	3. Thermal Nuclear Engagement

_Disclaimer:_ this fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. **Please be aware that this chapter contains smut: if that is not your thing then just skip down to the word "boneless."** For those of us who like smut however… Well, a little of what you fancy does you good, eh? Happy holidays!

* * *

**THERMAL NUCLEAR ENGAGEMENT**

* * *

_A Bothy on The Isle of Skye_

_AKA Molly Hooper's Personal Heaven_

_**Now** _

_Yes,_ Molly thinks, and _God, this is just from kissing,_ Molly thinks, and _Oh sweet little kitty Jesus that's good, right there, RIGHT THERE,_ _ **RIGHT THERE-**_

What she manages to say is, "umfgh!"

And "Sherlock!"

And "Nggg!"

All of which Sherlock, thankfully, takes as permission to proceed, which is what those interlocutions meant.

(Molly assumes his own "yesss," and "please, please, please," and "sweet little thing," mean something similar- At least, she is proceeding under that assumption.

As if to agree with this notion, Sherlock drags her body roughly against him, his big, hot hands gripping her bum and pressing her into the heat of his chest, his hips. Pressing into her and kissing her and licking her and just generally having his way with her every bit as much as she's having her way with him.

It feels. Fucking. Brilliant.)

"Want you," he's saying between kisses, nibbling at her throat. "Need you..."

_His voice is hoarse and deep and desperate and bloody hell, the things it's doing to Molly…_

"Want you too," she gasps out, hands reaching for his thick Aran jumper and pulling it roughly over his head, leaving his curls gloriously disheveled. Underneath he's wearing a shirt and a vest and she makes similarly short work of both, kissing him in between tearing them off his body and tossing them aside. Nipping at his throat and sucking his lower lip into her mouth as she kisses him.

The way Sherlock's panting seems to suggest this is rather welcome behaviour.

The fact that as soon as his upper body is free of pesky clothing he picks her up and starts carrying her towards the bed in the room further supports this interpretation.

 _Yes,_ Molly thinks, _Yes, YES,_ _ **YES!**_

With a growl she grips her thighs around his waist and holds onto his neck for dear life; they smash into the bed with a delicious, energetic "Oomph!" And collapse on top of one another with a gasp. More kisses. A growl.

And then she's on her back, Sherlock on top of her. His trousers and waders around his knees as he tries desperately to pull them off, toe off his shoes and kiss Molly silly at the same time. (One has to admire his ambition).

Molly helps by grabbing him and pushing him onto his back. Yanking off his shoes and then pulling down his waders and trousers with a satisfyingly assertive "there!" And tossing them aside. She then sets to work kissing him again. Licking him again. Scratching and squeezing him again.

 _Why,_ she thinks dazedly, _does someone who looks that good naked ever bother with clothing..?_

For a moment Sherlock is left in nothing but his socks, panting, and then just as suddenly he's on top of her, kissing her. Smouldering down at her. Popping open the buttons of her onesie and tugging it down to her bum. Her thighs. "God, you;re gorgeous in that thing," he mutters as he kisses her, again and again and again.

_Molly makes a mental note to fill her wardrobe once she gets home with every type of thermal underwear known._

His forearms bracket her head as he presses his body against hers and slides his fingers between their bodies. "There…" He murmurs, his thumb brushing her clit and Molly grins. Wraps her legs once again around the lean, taut solidness of his hips before opening herself to him. She reaches down, repositions his hand slightly- "there!"- And then takes him in hand. Guides him inside her. Their eyes meet, his breath clouding her face, his curls tickling her forehead. He looks at her and she nods, smiling. "Yes," she says and "yes," he answers her and then…

Then…

Then he's inside her. Warm. Heavy. Wet and wanted. Filling and hard and again, she thinks it, again she murmurs aloud _yes…Yes…_ _ **God, yes…**_

He sputters out a string of swear words as he slides inside, Then out, then in again, that deep, low voice sending shivers through her as he growls out about how good it feels to be buried inside her heat. He thrusts, hard and steady, the pace he's setting making them both gasp in breath. There's a sudden screech and crash and the bed's legs go out from under it. The frame and mattress land on the floor with a loud thump; Molly laughs in surprise or relief- she can't say- and Sherlock joins her. The feeling of him laughing as he's inside her is something that makes her heart flutter in her chest.

"Are you alright?" He asks, looking down at her, and she grins. Nods. She's still giggling.

"The Earth moved," she quips.

The look he shoots her is sinful. "Of course it did," he growls. "Why wouldn't it, with us?"

Another laugh and she sees his eyes go to her breasts, still jiggling with her laughter. He smiles. It's bright. Gorgeous. Everything he is at his best. Everything that makes him Sherlock, and oh but Molly loves it.

Keeping his eyes on hers he leans down. Takes one jiggling little nipple into his mouth and suckling it, then the other. He nips. Licks. Of course he's good at that, she thinks. _Of course he is._

His fingers begin working against her clit as he does it.

Molly sighs in pleasure and he thrusts, gentler this time. Perhaps worried about her, more likely worried about the bed but who cares about that now? _If the Earth cracks open under the bothy, she's still not bloody moving._ Molly threads her hands through his hair. Presses her hips up against his and kisses him. Strokes him. Breathes in time with him.

"There," she murmurs, and with anyone else she'd probably be embarrassed at how breathless she sounds, but somehow with him she isn't. (Maybe it's the way he's still smiling at her. More likely it's because it's him).

"Molly," he breathes out, pressing inside her. "Molly, my Molly," he says and at the words he shifts his position. Raises himself up on his elbows so it changes the angle at which he's entering her. He bites his lip, his eyes intent on hers, and burning.

Molly lets her lashes flutter shut at how utterly good it feels and she feels him press his forehead against hers.

"Yes, Sherlock's," she whispers, "and like that," she whispers and "God, that feels good," she whispers, over and over again…

_She never wants it to stop._

Sherlock's own words mirror hers, breathless and happy. Every so often he murmurs something nonsensical and fond to her and buries his face in her neck. Every so often her touches her clit just so and practically makes her growl. And when Molly finally feels herself coming apart he watches her through lidded eyes, one thumb stroking her cheek as she thrashes and digs her heels into the mattress.

"Yes, sweetheart," he murmurs. "That's beautiful… You're beautiful…"

Molly means to answer, she really does, but words have finally failed her. Instead she holds him close and kisses him.

When she's come, the sensations of it still fluttering through her, she switches position. Climbs atop Sherlock. Understanding moves through his expression and he nods: This time she rides him, this time she has the pleasure of making him come. And come he does, gasping, his eyes clouding over and his throat bared in ecstasy as he goes boneless beneath her…

"Bloody hell!" He says when he comes back to himself. He looks delicious. "That was... That was..." A glance at her. "Is it always like that for you?"

Molly cocks an eyebrow and she sees something, some flickering nervous thing ghost through his expression. She wants to ask him, but she doesn't. Instead she wraps her arms around him. Lays her head on his chest. _Something tells her that this is not the time for that question._ "I don't think I should answer that," she says instead. She risks a sneaky grin at him. "I don't want your head getting any more inflated."

She feels him relax beneath her, hears a puff of laughter.

She realises that she said the right thing, and oh it makes her glad.

"Molly," he says with mock gravitas, "you know my head is already enormous: what harm can a little more honest appreciation do it now, hmm?" He waggles his eyebrows at her. "Especially if you want more orgasms."

When she looks at him he's grinning, and then he starts tickling her. Tussling with her. Their laughter fills the bothy. Their hope too.

_Molly is suddenly, viscerally glad that she allowed herself to be dragged into the middle of nowhere by Sherlock bloody Holmes._

"Thank God for that," he laughs when she tells him, and Molly finds herself laughing in return.

* * *

The next four days are filled with honeyed, runny toast and hot whiskies and as much rumpy pumpy as two people living in thermal underwear can manage…

_Turns out, Sherlock has the most ridiculously short refractory period, and quite the imagination when it comes to Molly._

Lettie McKenzie will eventually receive a massive bottle of whisky and an invitation to young William Holmes' wedding. (Both bride and groom are rather keen on having her along. The mother of the groom too.)

When she does she'll demand the happy couple buy her a new bed and they will prove more than happy to oblige her-

So long as they get to test it first, of course.


End file.
